


The Final Countdown

by Chancy_Lurking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Bondage, Demon Powers, Frottage, In Public, M/M, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6807685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chancy_Lurking/pseuds/Chancy_Lurking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, I’m sorry, but once your ‘would go gay’ for list exceeds five people you’re bi. Get over it.” (One off-handed comment sends Dean into a sexual identity crisis in which he relives his past not-exactly-platonic encounters with men and also gets to have another one.)</p><p>(Inspired by Texts from the Impala)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Final Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> My very first contribution to SPNKBB! 
> 
> The artwork for this piece was done by the wonderful and talented, @bluefire986!
> 
> And all the hugs and thank-yous ever to @seventh-level-of-otp-hell on tumblr for being my beta!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The hyperlink wouldn't connect in the notes, but click thorough the image to see more of bluefire's work!)

[ ](http://bluefire986.livejournal.com/)

It has been a long time since the Winchesters have hit the safety of a national dry spell of things going bump in the night, but for once – in the middle of the safety of one such event – Dean is willing to avoid looking that gift horse in the mouth. It’s been a long year, a _very_ long year and frankly any specter out there can get bent. There are enough hunters in the country to handle a little salt and burn. Dean wants to spend the day drinking beer and washing cars; he thinks they’ve earned at least that much of a reprieve. But, hey, if Sam insists on driving up to check out a cabinet banger at a fleabag motel in the next county, Dean won’t stop him. A mildly inconveniencing, but as of yet non-murderous, poltergeist is nothing to write home about. He doesn’t even blink when an hour after Sam promised to phone home, he’s still getting radio silence. However, he _is_ half way into some dry clothes, checking to make sure everything was loaded with salt rounds when his texts go unanswered. He’s about to leave his second angry voicemail when his cell finally buzzes under his hand.

“Took you long enough,” Dean says as soon as he answers the phone, relief coding into annoyance. “What the hell happened?”

“Sorry,” Sam says, but sounds more flustered than apologetic. “I got caught up with the manager…”

That should have been explanation enough, but Dean knows his brother better than that. For all the hell they been through and the lies they’ve told, Sam is the most familiar book Dean knows how to read. He hears the way the sentence hangs incomplete and it makes his hackles raise. He’s already standing and headed for the spare car keys. “He a problem?” he asks.

“No, no, nothing like that. He, uh,” Sam chuckles a little sheepishly. “He was actually kinda charming?”

“ _Charming?_ ” Dean repeats, eyes narrowing. “You mean like spell-casting spook kinda charming?”

“ _No_ , D.” Sam responds and has no right to sound as annoyed as he does. A car door slams and Sam speaks as he starts up the engine. “He was just sorta, I don’t know, _quirky_ , but it was weirdly… endearing,” he admits and Dean can hear the half-embarrassed smile in his voice. “We got to talking for a while and I was standing there half waiting for him to ask me—oh.” Sam cuts himself off with his own startled laughter. “Oh, wait…”

“What?” Dean asks, beginning to wonder if he is even still talking to Sam. Dean hasn’t heard that kind of giddy laughter in a long time. “Are you _drunk_?”

“No! I was just thinking it was probably better I came out here,” Sam answers a bit breathlessly, amusement clear even as he tries to calm himself down. “He was very, uh, _Your Type_.”

“My _type?_ ” Dean rears back, staring at the phone as if it had betrayed him personally. “What does that mean ‘very _my type_ ’?” he shouts, “I don’t have a type of _guy_!”

Sam snorts. “ _Please,_ ” he says, “Charlie is the only person we know that isn’t into men at all.”

Now Dean is getting a little heated, but he assures himself it’s out of anger at an inaccurate accusation, not any inherent shame. Sam was way out of his fucking lane, what would he know? “What the _fuck_? _I’m_ not into men at all!!”

“No, dude, I’m sorry,” Sam is still laughing, so his tone comes out even more annoyingly patronizing than usual, “but once you’re ‘would-go-gay-for’ list exceeds five people, you’re bi. Get over it.”

There’s a moment where Dean’s train of thought spirals away from him – distant memories he never lets himself access suddenly springing back to the forefront of his mind. Shutting them out before they fully arrive is not an option and suddenly he is awash, hands numb with what he distantly recognizes as fear. That mental door is too fragile to slam shut again and shatters out of place when he tries. He remembers, he remembers _everything_ and now they’re all – men, all men – standing around him like ghosts. Surely there aren’t _five_ of them, but even still, he feels strangely cornered, both by his own swirling thoughts and by Sam’s words. He doesn’t know how to deal with that except outright denial, but he finds even that to be a struggle. “That is—I don’t—there is nobody _on_ that list!” he shouts finally. “I’m not even _keeping_ that list!”

Sam snorts again. “ _Right_.”

Dean clenches his jaw. Righting himself, he turns on his heel and stomps back across the bunker to his room, away from the ghosts in the hall. “Look, do we have a case or not?”

“No, it looks like it’s not—”

“Then I’ll see you when you get back.” Pushing the end button isn’t nearly as satisfying as slamming the phone shut, but it has to do. He stops just short of hurling it across the room, staring down at it in absent shock. He and Sam goaded each other all the time, their relationship was about 50% banter. But something felt different just then. It was _funny_ , Sam was _laughing_ , but he wasn’t _joking_.

He should’ve been kidding, Dean has never given any indication that he _might_ have ever gone gay for anyone, let alone more than once. But here he is, standing in the doorway to his room, feeling oddly sick, a guilty itching at the back of his mind. Sam is seeing something he isn’t, something Dean was certain _wasn’t really there_. He isn’t a… He isn’t _Like That._ John had raised them differently than that. Dean had raised _himself_ differently than that, but the queasy feeling doesn’t go away – mostly because he knows that’s not completely true. He’s good at lying to himself, he always has been, but right now, he needs some convincing. Or rather, what he _needs_ is to put himself back together before anyone else sees him.

 _There can’t be five._ Dean thinks and that settles the tension in his shoulders a bit. Sam had said the threshold was five people, _five_ people to make someone queer. So, fine. He shuts his bedroom door and sits down on the floor beside his bed, feeling smug already. There were some moments, sure, everyone who lived even a _little_ had a _few_ moments, but there’s no way it’s as high as _five_.

So _, fine._ He tips his head back and stops avoiding the thoughts, invites the ghosts to come tell their stories, tell _his_ stories to him again.


	2. A Locker Room in Texas

[ ](http://bluefire986.livejournal.com/7577.html)

Dean isn’t nearly old enough to say he doesn’t remember what it was like to be young, but he has lived hard enough that it’s sometimes a struggle to recall the feeling. He and Sam never had much of a chance to be children, Sam even less than Dean in spite of all Dean’s efforts. But there were some things they couldn’t lose, even being the children of a hunter.

He remembers his voice cracking – mid-scream unfortunately – and he remembers the first time he felt the burn of aftershave. He remembers being hungry all the time and scamming hotel owners at poker just for an extra meal (most of which went to Sam anyway). He remembers sharing a two-bed hotel room with Sam and John for a very arduous series of weeks after his balls dropped.

Privacy was a joke and Dean wasn’t in on it. He was frustrated in more ways than one and it was beginning to wear on everyone’s nerves.

So maybe that was where the thing with Grant started.

They were both standing at the top of the school food chain – which should have said enough, since Dean had only been there a month. They were the hot seniors, both with issues with authority and cars that they would drive girls off in. They were tit for tat socially, and it was grinding their gears how often they crossed paths. Dean wanted to be left alone and Grant wanted to establish that this was _his_ school and Dean was the outsider that probably wouldn’t even graduate. Eventually, Dean started to find it amusing – to push Grant’s buttons, see how much that Devil-may-care attitude covered up the simmering fury when Dean smiled and cut him down to size. He only ever got that angry when they were close enough that they could almost reach out and touch each other – in what way, Dean can’t be sure. Grant’s antagonism was only ever for Dean. He was trying to rattle Dean’s cage because he didn’t know there wasn’t much left in the world that could.

The back and forth between them was always sharp and quick; one liners and smirking taunts tossed off handedly in the hallway. It was a _game_ ; how close could they get before one of them backed off? They were just fooling around enough to make the girls watching get their panties wet and keep it moving. They said a lot of things during those exchanges, most of it meaningless banter. It changed the day Grant asked, “ _You hard, Winchester?_ ”

And to Dean’s horror, he fucking _was._

See, the thing is, the locker room after school was empty around this time and Dean just needed five minutes, just _five fucking minutes_ to have off without worrying about the person in the next bed overhearing. Grant was not supposed to still be there, let alone arguing with Dean from across the room. Dean had been just about to call it quits and throw the shower over to cold when he felt someone come up behind him.

“ _Woah, get the fuck back in your own stall, cowboy,_ ” Dean remembers saying, turning to look before abruptly turning away. “ _I’m not interested._ ” But, thing is, that was a blatant lie, he knew it, felt it in his gut. He just didn’t know _why_. He wasn’t – _isn’t_ , he corrected – into guys and certainly not Grant. But something broke between them in that moment and Dean could hardly draw in his breath. Grant was looking at him like he was a chew toy.

“ _You hard, Winchester?_ ” Grant said, in a voice still an octave lower than Dean’s that twisted Dean’s guts in all the wrong ways.

That wasn’t the way this exchange was supposed to go. Grant should have stayed on his side of the shower, maybe they would’ve had a standoff in their towels, goading about whose tent was bigger. This, however, Dean didn’t know what to do with.

When Dean’s back hit the shower wall, his first instinct of course was to start swinging. Getting cornered was getting killed, he’d been taught that his whole life; everything in him should’ve been fighting to get away. But Grant caught his wrist before the hit could land – if Dean is being honest, it wasn’t the strongest punch he could’ve thrown – shoving him bodily against the chilly tile. There were profanities right on the tip of Dean’s tongue, a threat he fully intended to carry out on, but two things happened all at once.

The first was the coach suddenly shouting “ _Who’s in here?_ ” from the office; the second was Dean’s hips arching towards Grant’s. It was a reflex, hardly more than a _flinch_ , but it was enough that it brought their crotches together.

Dean let out a startled groan when his cock grazed Grant’s. He startled when a hand slapped over his mouth almost instantly, though Grant’s breath caught when he surged forward.

“ _Just hosing off, coach!_ ” Grant shouted, damp hand over Dean’s mouth, smiling as Dean glared at him, wild-eyed and shocked.

Though the furrow of his brows jumped up in surprise when Grant’s hips were suddenly flush with his, their arousals trapped between their bodies. Dean’s breath stuttered out nearly silently, but Grant was less than an inch from his face. His eyes lit up at the sound as the coach shouted back to lock up when he was done.

“ _Are you gonna run this time?_ ” Grant whispered over the hiss of the shower, his lips pressed against the back of his own hand. “ _Coast is clear, nobody’ll know…_ ”

_But me_ , his tone said.

And really, Dean knew Grant would never tell. He could’ve forced him off and left the shower right then; that would’ve been the end of their story without so much as an epilogue.

However, part of him knew this would be the end of their story anyway. _Nobody’ll know._

Dean bit at Grant’s palm, and even as inexperienced as he was, he couldn’t miss the heat in his eyes when he pulled his hand away.

“ _No_ ,” Dean said finally. He tried to sound cocky, tried not to look down at Grant’s body. He wanted to believe he succeeded in both, but his voice cracked slightly when he asked, “ _Are you?_ ”

There were no more words after that.

Dean turned his face, something like shame spiking when Grant leaned forward to kiss him. Grant played the course he was given, pressing his mouth instead to the crook of Dean’s neck, meshing their bodies together.

The hot drag of Grant’s cock against his had Dean’s stomach turning, but he couldn’t parse whether or not it was disgust or something else. If it was something else, he didn’t have a word for it, not one he was willing to use because it made him arch forward and dig his nails into Grant’s back.

At that moment, thinking that he was so disgusted he was turned on seemed like a perfectly valid explanation.

Dean wasn’t at the point in his life where he had very good control over what his body did yet. But even now, almost twenty years later, he still feels embarrassed over how quickly – how _intensely_ – he blew his top. His vision greyed around the edges when he came, drawing blood on his own lip and thumping his head against the tile when he threw his head back. Grant, however, wouldn’t be one to make fun – setting Dean off set him off and he came shortly after, spurting all over Dean’s stomach.

There wasn’t a good explanation for why that feeling, of Grant’s jizz sliding down his skin, was the sensation that would set him off for the next few weeks, but Dean didn’t look to deeply into it. When Grant pulled back, stepping under the now tepid water of the shower to rinse off, Dean thought he might have _wanted_ an answer. He wanted to know a lot of things, namely what that look on Grant’s face meant and why it made him feel like shit. He wanted to know why he felt worse when it slid back into a smirk, faker than Dean’s ever were or have been since.

“ _Good times, Winchester,_ ” he said and Dean wanted to take another shower. He felt the need to explain himself, to explain away the tone of Grant’s voice, but he didn’t know what for.

In the end, he never did have to explain himself or his feelings. Grant walked out and got dressed without so much as a backwards glance and John made them skip town the next week anyway.

Dean thinks this one counts. Even though it was a learning experience, even though it was just a game. He counts this one because all firsts mean something, even if only for nostalgia’s sake.


	3. Purgatory

The fact that the next encounter happened a _decade_ later should be pretty telling. It was a break in the established trend, it was unusual.

Everything about his relationship with Benny was unusual, starting with the fact that the majority of it happened in Purgatory.

A lot happened back then, most of it blurring into the seemingly endless number of monsters to fight. Every day there was a new battle, more bloodshed and bruises, Benny whistling – ever vigilant – behind Dean’s back. They were dancing to a tune that quickly grew familiar, _pure_ as Benny had put it, like falling into a natural slot. It was the lull in the dance – a pause or a broken beat that stood out, that lead to one of the most intense moments of Dean’s life.

What he remembered was darkness and warmth and the smell of Benny’s beard and dirt. _Clean_ dirt. It was a smell that, today, he wishes he could bottle up and douse himself with on bad days. It makes his heart ache just to think about it.

There aren’t many monsters in the world that Dean doesn’t have a name for, even fewer that he couldn’t name and handle on sight. That being said, Purgatory was a land of fighting and death, but it was also a breeding ground for hybrids. Dean to this day has no clue what the fuck they had been fighting, all he knew was that when he ganked it, it exploded into goo.

And not _blood,_ Dean remembers, not ectoplasm, not poison, just unidentified, sticky _goo._ Hell, it could’ve been _shit_ for all he knew, but whatever it was he was _covered_ in it and it was _freaking Dean the fuck out._ He’d heard stories about pheromones, about non-humans being able to scent each other out and mark their territory. Even never having experienced it first hand, Dean had to guess this was pretty damn close to the feeling of being unwillingly marked. The smell felt like it was _inside him_ , seeping into his skin and making him the property of the dead freak and Dean could hardly think straight over it. He wanted it _gone._

Benny was saying something, trying to calm him down, but Dean was about to crawl out of his own skin. His senses had zeroed down to scent and he was lost under the unfamiliar heavy smell, dizzy and enraged. He dropped to the ground the second they were out of immediate danger, grabbing handfuls of dirt and scrubbing at his skin. His shirt was off before he even really thought about doing it, pressing it into the ground away from his body. He was drooling, he realized, turning away to spit and rub his nose. " _Fuck!_ " he shouted, though it came out shamefully shaky. He felt disgusting.

" _Alright now, you wimp, calm down_ ," Benny said and leaned down to touch him. That was the mistake, Dean figures. Because Benny moving towards him was enough motion to cause a shift in the air around Dean. Enough, that Benny’s scent suddenly cut through the frantic haze of his mind. Dean _lunged_ for it, knocking Benny down and rubbing himself into Benny’s clothes.

Benny’s hands latched onto him instantly, grunting startled as he fell back onto his ass, Dean rubbing on him like a cat. At first, Dean thought Benny was gearing to push him away, tell him to get a hold of himself. But he was just resting his hands on Dean’s shoulders while the man pressed as much of his skin to Benny’s as he could.

" _Now, look here, D…"_ Benny said when Dean buried his face in Benny’s neck. He sighed at the scrape of Benny’s beard against his temple, snaking his arms up his shirt at the same time. It sounded like a warning, but Dean was too distracted with the slick slide of Benny’s skin across his hands, Benny’s smell taking over, to think about why his tone was raspy and not harsh. It hit about five seconds later. He hadn’t realized he was getting hard until he felt Benny’s erection pressed up against his thigh. Shame was slow to kick in – he had been too flustered to really think about what he was doing – but when it did, his overheated blood abruptly ran cold.

Dean remembers, with startling clarity, the impulse he felt to jump off Benny, to get as far away as he safely could – and then maybe even run past that. He thinks… he thinks it was Benny’s face that stopped him.

Benny, who was propped up on his elbows, Dean having pushed him almost fully onto his back, didn’t look disgusted or angry or any of the things Dean half expected. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes, the joyous teasing lit that seemed to be there no matter what, but Dean was more distracted by the _want._ Benny’s cheeks were flushed, mouth hanging slack and open as he look at Dean searchingly.

He looked _hungry_.

The fear that should’ve been instinctual when a monster looked at him like that didn’t kick in because he _knew_ what kind of hunger it was.

" _Smell better?_ " Benny said, voice gravelly as he held himself carefully still. That wasn’t the real question, but Dean knew that. If Benny had asked right off what he wanted, Dean would’ve gone flying off him in a heartbeat – he couldn’t handle that much directness. Benny was approaching him, slowly, sideways, and whistling, same as always. He wasn’t attacking him, they were on the same team.

" _No,"_ Dean said quickly, fingers clenching involuntarily into Benny’s skin. He could practically hear his blood rushing through his veins, wondered vaguely if Benny could, too. He wanted to test the limits again, how far could he press before someone pulled away. It seemed like he could press pretty hard, judging by the way Benny licked his lips.

Benny cut his eyes around, briefly assessing the area for attackers before chuckling lowly. He pushed his jacket off. " _Well, come on, then,_ " he said, lying back in the dirt. He smirked when Dean’s eyes shot to his hand where it was bunching up his shirt. “ _Have at it._ ”

It was sexual, Dean won’t deny that even now. But in that moment – the break between being aroused and actively doing something about it – he felt referent. Benny’s shirt was pushed up to reveal his treasure trail, damp with sweat, and Dean felt an odd sort of stillness fall over him when he pressed his face there. The smell wasn’t clean but it was— _pure_ , it was _Benny_ and Dean was reeling with it. Benny’s chest rumbled under his lips when Dean opened his mouth against the warm skin, the salty skin setting his mouth to watering.

" _Cher, just what do you mean to do to me?_ " Benny laughed breathlessly, running his hands through Dean’s hair before closing one firmly at the nape of his neck.

Even now, Dean feels gooseflesh rising on his arms at the memory of the sensation. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, remembering the rough drag of Benny’s palm down his back. He’s getting flushed.

At the time, the question caught Dean off guard, because he really had no clue what he was trying to get at. He felt good, felt _clean_ when he was touching Benny which should’ve conflicted with how _wrong_ he felt it was. A vampire, a man, Dean shouldn’t have been there, feeling that way, and yet… And yet.

The way Benny stretched with a rumbling groan, stroking Dean’s skin was intoxicating. It made him want to crawl inside him and get lost, a feeling he didn’t know how to reconcile. His heart thudded when Benny grunted as his mouth instinctively sought out one of his nipples. He didn’t know what he was doing, but Benny seemed content to let him figure it out – lying still except for the heaving of his breath.

Figuring it out, Dean found, meant getting as much of his skin against Benny’s as possible. He tugged until Benny got the message, flipping his shirt over his head before laying against him chest to chest. Though it wasn’t the intention, but the move left them lying face to face, inches apart. Benny’s lips were now slick where he’d licked at them and, for the first time in his life, Dean felt the desire – strong, lungs-burning-get-to-the-surface-now, _urgent_ desire– to kiss Benny, kiss another male.

Dean wonders absently if Benny was the start of his inability to properly control his urges. Because not a moment after he’d had that thought, did he surprise himself by acting on it.

Surprised the both of them apparently, judging by the way Benny drew in a sudden breath, arching up against him. In spite of where they were and all they had been through, Benny kissed him back, instantly, like he’d been waiting for it and it meant something. His tongue stroked against Dean’s making him shudder, hips twitching forward.

The motion seemed to be enough to set Benny off, taking him out of his willing passiveness. He muttered something in Creole against his lips and in the next instant, Dean was flat on his back. The breath was startled out of him, but then Benny was kissing him again and he had no hopes of getting it back. He writhed and squirmed, but they both knew if Dean wanted Benny off, he would’ve slit his throat them moment he pinned him down.

However, he admittedly _did_ consider it when, a few moments after Benny had forced their pants down and started slowly grinding their crotches together, Benny pulled away to stick two fingers into his own mouth, smirking and drooling around the intrusion. Dean stared at him with an open mouth, hopelessly turned on. He was just about to ask if that was a demo for Benny giving _head_ or something when the hand in question suddenly dipped between his legs.

Dean would’ve jumped about a foot in the air if Benny’s body hadn’t been there holding him down. “ _What the fuck are you—hey!_ ” His voice jumped up about three octaves when he felt the pad of Benny’s finger press against his asshole. He hadn’t been thinking about that, hadn’t even _wanted_ to think about that and his first response was stark panic. He caught Benny by the wrist, “ _Wait just a—_ ”

“ _Hush now,_ ” Benny shushed him, biting gently at Dean’s ear, the words giving Dean the peculiar sensation of warm water down the spine. “ _I ain’t gonna hurt you,_ ” he said, “ _I know what I’m doing._ ”

That sentence ground Dean’s brain to a halt ( _Benny had sex with men??_ ), stalling him long enough for Benny to press his finger further into Dean’s entrance. Dean – who had done this to several ladies in the past – was suddenly thrown for a loop. This felt… weird. He didn’t get it, it was just _weird._ It felt like he needed to shit, though he noted with no mild amount of horror, his erection was still bobbing against his stomach. He was just about to end his shocked silence on the matter when Benny’s second finger finally pushed in beside the first, all the way up to his knuckle. The stretch burned slightly, making Dean hiss, but—oh _._ He clenched down around Benny’s fingers, sending an odd tingling up his spine. It felt like lighting came racing back down in response when Benny’s fingers curled up, sliding around searchingly before—

“ _Oh, shit!_ ” Dean said, body jerking involuntarily, “ _Benny, oh, oh, oh…_ ” _That_ was a new sensation; one that made Dean’s dick throb and leak.

“ _Boy, it would be fun,_ ” Benny chuckled, looking longingly down at where his fingers disappeared inside Dean. " _Making you sing for real…_ "

_Fucking him,_ Dean thinks, covering his face with one hand while the other trailed guiltily down towards his crotch. Benny had meant it would’ve been fun to fuck him, to open Dean up with his dick and see if he could make him scream. He wonders, if they’d had the time and been in the right place, if he would’ve let Benny find out. He wonders if he would’ve let him do it right then, hand clamped over his mouth, risk be damned; he thinks he might have.

But then Benny had leaned down to kiss along his open mouth, ending his internal conflict by saying, “ _But that’s not gonna be our party, cher._ ” Dean wasn’t sure if he meant just right then or ever; his hand freezes where he’d began casually rubbing himself off when he realizes he’ll never know.

At the time, he’d clung to Benny with sweat on his brow, aching and on edge in a way he’d never felt before. The pressure building as Benny swirled his fingers around the sensitive spot inside him. He wanted it to stop, he wanted it to never end, _he was about to come without even touching his dick._ The words – a warning or a demand or a _plea_ , Dean can’t parse the difference now – were jammed in his mouth, a muddled mess of Dean being so close to coming his teeth ached. Benny seemed to understand nevertheless, but also seemed to not really care. Dean felt a roll in his stomach when Benny’s teeth grazed a little harder at his neck. He growled at him and Benny just chuckled back, sinking his teeth in and the same moment he wrapped his hand around Dean’s dick. The fangs tore Dean’s skin and he drew blood himself biting his lip to hold back a scream – be it from the orgasm that crashed over him or the pain in his neck, he wasn’t sure.

What he _is_ sure of is that he nearly pulled a goddamn muscle, arching up off the ground, unable to decide whether to push down on Benny’s finger or up into his palm. He was seeing stars while he broke the skin on Benny’s back with his nails, clawing like he was dying and Benny was his only chance at life. And maybe he was. He couldn’t breathe over the lovely torture wracking his body.

When it passed, Benny held the hand in Dean’s ass still, almost comfortingly holding him through the aftershocks. Gentle in contrast to the way he had let go of Dean’s dick to start stripping his own. Dean’s head was still a little foggy, blessedly keeping his awkwardness at bay. There was a sense of pride maybe – even as he lay in the dirt covered in his own come with a finger up his _ass_ – that couldn’t let Benny finish himself. His hand shook a little, both with nerves and post-orgasm unsteadiness, but he let his fingers land on the back of Benny’s hand.

Benny stopped, moaning against the torn – but healing, now that his fangs were gone – skin of Dean’s neck. He let Dean’s hand slip under his, leaving his palm, guiding, against the back of Dean’s hand. Dean’s fingers had hardly touched him, barely registered the sensation of an unfamiliar foreskin in his hand, before he felt a drop in his stomach. This was possibly the most intimate he’d ever felt with someone, having someone else’s cock in his hand. It was different, he felt impossibly younger like this, but it was _scarily close_ to meaning _something_. His breath came out unsteady as he stroked Benny off, one hand still digging into his back. It was when Dean gave into the urge to bite down on the crook of Benny’s neck that he finally came with a grunt, splotches of his come mixing with Dean’s.

They sagged together then. Benny was still carefully bearing his weight on his elbows, but the tension – an almost constant accessory these days – bled out of his shoulders. For just that minute, with Benny breathing against his shoulder and Dean’s arms resting against his back as he stared at the endless gray of Purgatory’s sky, it felt bizarrely normal. It didn’t seem like the world was falling apart or they were being hunted in a place two steps from hell; it was just Dean and Benny and everything was fine. Dean _wanted_ to sleep for the first time in what felt like weeks and that was dangerous enough that he was about to pat Benny’s shoulder, have him sit up. But before he got the chance, Benny’s hand drifted back down between them. Now, “sexpert” though he was, Dean was not a young man, not really. There was no way he was going to get it up again that quickly, not even when Benny sealed their lips together and stole his breath. He got light headed when he realized that wasn’t what Benny was reaching down there for.

Benny was rubbing his come into Dean’s _skin_ and Dean felt like _dying_ , a bizarre mixture of relief and shame hit him so suddenly. All he could feel and smell and taste and see was Benny. He focused on kissing Benny, trying to use the moment to fix his face before Benny was looking at him again. He hadn’t started crying or anything, but it may have looked like he wanted to. He may have _felt_ like he wanted to. But instead, he breathed harshly trying to school his expression neutral while Benny hummed and rubbed across his chest and stomach.

After a moment, Benny stopped his ministrations, slowly pulling his fingers out of Dean and sitting back. He knelt over Dean, licking his hand clean with a dark look. “ _Smell better?_ ” he asked, teasingly.

It broke the spell, so to speak, and reality crashed dizzily back into place. Dean scrambled out from under him, Benny moving amiably out of the way as Dean stood. A different kind of panic settled in over the first, but Dean was able to push this one far enough down that he didn’t shake. He wasn’t going to cry or come apart. He was in control of this.

“ _Never again,_ ” he said. He didn’t specify what he meant, because he meant all of it.

Benny, with his face equal parts hapless and smug, just smiled and threw his hands out to the sides. “ _Ok,_ _cher_ ,” he said and, thankfully for Dean’s already injured spirit, didn’t sound too hurt. He sounded like he didn’t quite believe him.

They never brought it up again, even… even when…

_Never again._

Dean would do just about anything to take back those words. He’d stay on his back, Benny’s fangs in his neck as he fucked Dean into the _dirt_ for however long it took, if it would just _bring Benny back_. He’d lost more opportunities than he’d really let himself think about when he lost Benny. He thinks, without even realizing it, he may have lost a lover.

The sudden remorse and grief he feels tilts him off his axis. He can feel himself getting worked up and he drags his hands down his face, sucking in an unsteady breath.

Ok. His eyes sting. _Ok_.

Yeah, Benny counts, too.

Benny counts more than anyone.


	4. Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit, May 6, 2018: Someone commented that this scene came across as dubious/non-consent to them which wasn't what I intended, but nevertheless, upon having it pointed out, it seems pertinent to add a heads up.
> 
> Being clear, Crowley is a demon and a sadist, that's played up a lot here. Also, he and Dean don't actually like each other all that much and it shows. The biting, bondage, pain play, and demon powers tags are all for this chapter. 
> 
> A detailed summary (obviously with spoilers) has been added to the end notes.

The transition from sadness to anger is an easy one to make so Dean lets himself do it. It’s fitting this time around, because thinking about the next time he was with another man pisses him off. Partly because Crowley didn’t deserve any of what Dean let him have. Partly, because Dean enjoyed every fucking minute of it, was _basking_ in Crowley’s attention. As a demon, he was sharp and cruel, but more than anything, he was shameless.

Dean wasn’t drunk, not really – he was a heavy weight even before he had the benefit of being a creature. He could probably have drank the whole bar without feeling unsteady on his feet. As it was, however, he only drank about half.

“ _You’ve never really had a good time in your whole life, have you?_ ” Crowley said as he regarded Dean with interest. He wasn’t drunk either, but was feeling loose enough – comfortable enough in Dean’s presence that he was letting himself slip. He was leaning on the bar with his chin in his hand, toying with the olive in the bottom of his martini.

Dean had been staring out at the crowd then, scoping out the blonde in the hot shorts bent over the pool table flirtatiously. He hardly cut his eyes to Crowley when he spoke. “ _What’s that supposed to mean?_ ” he asked, “ _Just because my hobbies aren’t killing and torturing doesn’t—_ ”

“ _You’ve killed and tortured plenty,_ ” Crowley muttered just loud enough for Dean to hear. He crossed his arms against the wood of the bar when Dean’s eyes abruptly went dark.

The thought makes him run cold now, the way Crowley’s words had annoyed not shamed him. He lets them memory play on and drag him along with it.

“ _And at any rate,_ ” Crowley continued, “ _this isn’t about_ my _manner of leisure pursuits, it’s about yours. Or rather, your lack thereof. No sports, no knitting club…_ ”

Taking a moment to pause, Dean filtered through a number of thoughts before turning to Crowley with a smirk and an uncaring gesture. “ _I do fuck,_ ” he said, “ _Even make a sport out of it, now and again._ ” His face fell when Crowley tossed his head back and laughed.

“ _You really believe that don’t you, you poor sod. Or,_ ” Crowley laughed again, spearing the olive in his glass. “ _No, I guess you’re not, ah?_ ”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“ _You’re the shittiest player in the league, love,_ ” Crowley laughed. “ _You’re not even on the field, you’re bench warming._ ”

Dean got in his face, staring down at him – eyes dead and threatening. “ _What the fuck would you know about it?_ ” he said. Demon or not, Dean prided himself on sex, all forms of it. He was a shitty lover, couldn’t give anything by way of true romanticism, but he knew his way around his own dick. He was a _great_ lay, thank you very much.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “ _Unclench, lad,_ ” he said in warning. “ _I didn’t mean_ you _, I meant the people you’ve been with._ People _,_ ” he said scornfully. “ _A waste of energy that lot. Wouldn’t know a real good time until it was crawling up their ass…_ ” his eyes were pointedly on Dean, even as he stuck the olive in his mouth.

It took less than a second for Dean to recognize Crowley’s tone as flirtatious, subtlety had no place between creatures like them. Two demons howling at the moon, no guilt, no shame, not pussy footing. Crowley was centuries old and bored and Dean read it right off his face. And Dean wasn’t going to sell himself short, not now, not while he was like this. Not while all the bad feelings that had been drowning him his whole godforsaken life were at bay and he was having a good time, Dean was _something else._ He was hot as ever, semi-immortal, and slowly becoming one of the strongest demons the world would ever see and Crowley _wanted_ him.

Dean crossed his arms, looking at Crowley curiously. There was a strange heat stirring in his gut; strange only in that the object of its cause was Crowley and not the bombshell burning a hole in the side of his skull. “ _You saying you could show me a good time?_ ”

Crowley scoffed, half offended. “ _I’m the bloody king of hell; sin is my only expertise._ ” He stood, looking at Dean challengingly, eyes flashed red. “ _I could give you the time of your life._ ”

The desire to rip into each other was practically sizzling in the air between them. It was about the sex, but the violence of the act more than any real emotion behind it. Dean had a desire to ruin Crowley that was only slightly shadowed by his desire to see ( _if_ ) Crowley could ruin him first. He turned around to face the bar, feeling himself getting hard against his jeans.

“ _Bet you couldn’t,_ ” Dean whispered and _knew better._ He was strong, yes, possibly even stronger than Crowley, but he didn’t know what to do with that yet, how to access it. He knew better than to offer a challenge like that, but he was _soaring_ , high on feeling guilt free arousal, he felt _invincible._ He was also, apparently, slightly numb. The floor didn’t hurt all that bad when he smacked his head against it; though looking back on it, it was more likely he was unconscious before he hit the ground.

//

It had certainly been sometime between the bar and where he came to, but he was wide awake this time around, pain singing out bright and clear.

The pain itself wasn’t more than Dean could handle. Even as a human, even before he’d gone to Hell he’d experienced worse. However, the fact that it was centered on his _dick_ was setting off more than a few alarm bells.

He tried to push up to see what the _fuck_ that was all about when he realized his arms and legs were bound to the supports of whatever he had woken up on. The best Dean could figure, it was a metal sawhorse – padded with enough leather that it might not tear skin, but was still not very forgiving where it was digging into his stomach. He tried to sit up without his hands, but only made it about a centimeter upwards before pain exploded across his chest. His nipples were chained together around the bottom of the horse.

“ _Crowley, I fucking swear!_ ” he shouted, letting his head hang down.

“ _Predicament bondage,_ ” Crowley said, almost disinterestedly even as Dean turned to snarl at the sound of his voice from behind. He shouted when Crowley flicked what he realized was a rope linking his dick to the floor, making Crowley chuckle. “ _Very fitting for the predicament you’ve landed yourself in, no?_ ”

“ _Very funny,_ ” Dean barked. “ _Let me go,_ ” he said, for face’s sake which confused him. Just a while ago, he’d talked about the complete lack of shame and what it felt like to stand at the peak of freedom and stare down at the huddled masses. But now, something was different – and it wasn’t just the threat of torsion on his balls, he _felt_. And he didn’t like this human emotion, _fear_.

Or, perhaps fear wasn’t the correct word. He was hollow and Crowley was the only one around to fill him. Dean _wanted_ but he didn’t have a clue what and that meant he had no clue what he was going to be given. Though he guessed, by the look in Crowley’s eyes when he stepped around in front of Dean, that he was going to be stuffed until he overflowed, until he _burst_ with it. His stomach twisted.

“ _Surely you didn’t think it’d be so easy,_ ” Crowley said condescendingly then grabbed Dean by the hair before he could twist and bite his fingers. “ _Say please first._ ”

Dean managed to keep his face the same level of contemptuous neutral it had been since they’d begun speaking, but there was a minute level of surprise to be covered now. Sure, he’d known Crowley had a taste for begging, that was old news, but he also knew that this was something different as well.

Crowley, whether Dean acknowledged being fully onboard or not, presumed them to be business partners for the foreseeable future. Going and turning Dean into a whipping goat against his will would just result in Crowley making an enemy he might not be able to put down if it came to that. “ _Say please first,_ ” was a courtesy Dean had not been expecting, not in this situation, not from someone like Crowley. It was Crowley giving him an easy way to say yes and an equally easy – assuming some swallowed pride – way to say no. Well, wasn’t that just fucking considerate of him.

Dean sneered and it seemed to please his host.

“ _No?_ ”

“ _Bite me_ ,” Dean shot back instantly and was in no way surprised when Crowley did. Right on his cheek and hard enough to draw blood. When Crowley turned him loose – letting go of both his hair and face – Dean felt the low thrum of arousal spike suddenly at the smear of blood across Crowley’s lips.

“ _Figured as much,_ ” Crowley said, tossing off his jacket and unbuttoning his cufflinks. “ _Hard way it is then._ ”

Realistically, Dean knows Crowley couldn’t have worked on him for more than an hour or so, but it _felt_ a hell of a lot longer. Sadists are some of the most creative kinds of people and Crowley was certainly no exception. There were a number of things that hurt him, made his head spin, but it was the knife that took him away. The knife that tore the skin on his back, but Dean barely winced – feeling murky and submerged. The pull on his gonads and his nipples at once was a pretty solid deterrent as well, both already wrung red and tender. But he didn’t scream, not yet, even when he thought the blade was cutting him a little more than physically. No, his lips were bitten raw, but his mouth didn’t snap out any more than a curse. Until Crowley dripped holy water into his wounds.

Dean felt like his very existence exploded in his body, writhing away from where the water ran across— _into_ his skin. It was a pain he’d never felt before and, surprisingly enough, Dean was more than a little _thrilled._ As the water began to sizzle off, leaving raw burns in its wake, Dean began to laugh.

He felt a little high, honestly. It’d been a long time since his last joint, even longer since his last pill, but the feeling was unmistakable. The pain was still there, he was feeling it spark out to every part of his body, but he felt _above_ it. He was feeling above _everything_ , even the twisting in his stomach that said he needed to _come now two minutes ago immediately_. That didn’t make sense in his mind, and the slow, sloppy way his thoughts were moving didn’t either. He couldn’t think over the pain and arousal even though he felt like he was staring down into it. He felt blown out of himself.

“ _Did you drug me?_ ” he slurred and Crowley socked him in the jaw.

“ _Cad_ ,” he said. “ _Of course not. You’re drugging yourself._ ” When he leaned down and took Dean’s ear into his mouth, Dean couldn’t do much more than groan. Crowley chuckled, biting down once before speaking. “ _The best way to flood the system is from the inside,_ ” he said, then looked Dean directly in the eyes as he cut a nick into Dean’s shoulder that hardly made him blink. “ _Are you floating already?_ ”

The question sounded like Crowley was making fun of him, but Dean couldn’t argue with him. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and his skin was tingling. He just looked at Crowley blearily.

Crowley kicked his chin out, tongue resting on his lip in thought. “ _Huh,_ ” he muttered, then stood and crossed around to where Dean couldn’t see. He resisted the urge to call out – that would’ve been too telling– but eventually winced a little when Crowley’s hands landed on his ass. The skin was already battered, probably bleeding slightly too if the tackiness between their skin was anything to go by. There was a moment where the pain made his head start swimming again, but then abruptly, it was overtaken by a startled jerk that nearly made his nipples bleed.

Crowley had pulled his cheeks apart and pressed something into his asshole. Though he tried to disguise it by quickly following with his finger, Dean already had multiple warnings going off in his brain.

“ _What’d you put in me!?_ ”

“ _Just a little something to make the going smoother._ ” Dean could hear Crowley smirking as he rubbed the item _inside Dean’s fucking asshole_.

Dean tried to twist his hips away, but only succeeded in doing more harm than good. His dick was aching. “ _What going??_ ” he demanded, “ _Get it the fuck out or I’m—_ ”

Crowley grabbed Dean’s balls, ropes and all, and twisted; Dean’s vision nearly whited out in pain.

“ _Are you going to behave yourself?_ ” he asked, leaning over Dean’s back to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “ _We both know you could get out of those bonds if you were really set to._ ”

And the thing about it was, Dean hadn’t even once thought about that until Crowley said it. His demon powers might not be completely under his control yet, but he was surely more than strong enough to yank his arms free and get off this horse.

The thing about it was, he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to. Mixing with the floating sensation brought on by all the feel-good hormones his brain could pump out, he had started feeling… _gooey._ He was starting to feel warm and mushy inside, like he might just melt into the floor. Not a moment later, he realized he _was_ dripping on the floor. Something warm and slick sliding out around Crowley’s finger, tickling where it ran over the sensitive skin of his balls. He growled around the whine that tried to escape as the warmth spread down his dick. “ _Crowley, get the fuck out of there!_ ”

“ _Say please._ ”

“ _I’m gonna rip your fucking_ —,” Crowley’s finger bent and Dean bent with it. “ _Ohh, oh_ ,” Dean said, pleasure rocketing through his core.

Oh, Dean _says_ and his knee falls over; he spreads open to the ghost of the feeling without thinking. Frustrated, he draws his legs close and shuts his eyes. Oh, he remembers. He remembers the sudden ache, the way his body was screaming _too much_ and _not enough_ at the same time. He remembers arching into right after he’d just arched away. He shivers and remembers touching there himself, _imagines_ doing it right now. He forces his own desire away and Crowley’s voice washes over him, dripping with the very same desire.

“ _Ah, there it is_ ,” Crowley had said. “ _Universal off switch. Or on, depending on how you want to look at it, I suppose._ ”

“ _Fuck you,_ ” Dean ground out, but didn’t sound convincing even to his own ears. Even with the pain and the pulling and the little rivulets of blood and holy water still damp on his skin, he was too willing to lay there to lie to himself. It hurt, everything fucking hurt, but Crowley’s fingers were making his insides feel like _mush_ and he was _so hot_ inside he needed something he just—

He was turned on out of his mind.

“ _Like I said_ , _sin is my expertise,_ ” Crowley whispered. He paused to lean down and lick some of the blood off Dean’s neck as he, none too gently, added an additional two fingers to Dean’s ass. “ _Lead them to temptation and such._ ”

The sopping feeling inside him intensified with the stinging stretch of his asshole. He made a choked off noise, clenching around Crowley’s fingers. Every move he made spiked the feeling, like the fingers were not enough, wouldn’t even come close to making him solid again, making him _whole._ It was just his breath, just _panting_ he knew, but he still had the vague feeling that he was sobbing. He wanted Crowley, _needed_ him; he couldn’t handle this feeling on his own, he couldn’t even name it.

“ _One word,_ ” Crowley sang against Dean’s ear, fingers fucking into Dean mercilessly. “ _One word and I’ll make it stop. All I need’s a please._ ”

Dean kept his mouth shut only because he wasn’t sure what would fall out if he didn’t. His pride was already wounded enough without having to deal with the sound of his own begging. He set his jaw, even though he couldn’t quite hold back the unbearably loud sound of his shaky breathing.

Crowley didn’t ask again. “ _Right, then,_ ” he said. And in the next breath, his fingers were gone and his cock was shoved in in place. If Crowley noticed or was moved by the way Dean’s body suddenly bowed up – ignoring the sensation of nearly pulling off his nipples, bruising his dick – he didn’t make it known. He just shoved Dean back down, “ _Uh-uh,_ ” he chuckled, groaning briefly as he slid all the way home. “ _Be still, lad, enjoy the ride._ ”

There was a blanket of inhumanness, a numbness of an already high pain tolerance raised to astronomical levels. He knew it hurt, but felt it as if it were happening far away from him. This, he figures, was intentional on his mind’s part – the other pain he let touch him, but this… He needed a buffer to handle taking this and even still, he found himself shouting; mouth and eyes open wide.

Those “three extra inches” meant something then.

Crowley was not having sex with him, Crowley wasn’t even _fucking_ him – Dean felt like even less of a person than he had when he woke up a demon. A hole. He just felt like a _hole_ , the beginning and end of his pleasure was all wrapped up in the pain where Crowley’s dick was splitting him open.

And there were words, Dean knows there were. He can remember how they felt, how they made his heart pound and his dick drip as Crowley growled them into his skin. He knows they were filthy, believes they were probably violent as well, but their exact nature is lost to him now, no small mercy. The memory of what it was like for his abused hole, still dripping with whatever charm Crowley had stuffed in it, finally feeling good, feeling _right_ with Crowley’s cock slamming into it, is more than enough. It’s too much. He wouldn’t be able to handle the words, even if he were to try to remember them; it’s a wall he doesn’t want to scratch.

What he does remember, with startling clarity, is that – what felt like forever later – there was blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten his lip open and he was thinking he couldn’t take any more of this. His whole body was screaming for release, one giant exposed nerve with only one salve to be offered.

_Please,_ he thought. _Please, please, please, fucking **please** —_

And maybe he said it out loud because Crowley chuckled against his shoulder blades. “ _Stubborn bastard,_ ” he muttered before yanking loose the rope around Dean’s dick.

The sudden unrestricted blood flow was not altogether pleasant, not by a long shot, but it still crashed into all the other sensations and made Dean’s body _sing._ He was coming harder than he’d ever remembered coming before, wave after wave washing over him as Crowley used his hole. He couldn’t even see, his vision blurring out completely when he finished. He went limp, exhausted and raw and _outside himself_ as Crowley finished off a few strokes later with a laugh. “ _What’d I say?_ ” he goaded, patting Dean perfunctorily on the ass as he pulled out.

Dean didn’t argue, couldn’t. He didn’t even have it in him to raise his head to give a proper glare, just lying there until Crowley came around to crouch in front of his face. He patted Dean’s cheek. “ _Time of your life,_ ” he said.

It’s remembering the tenderness in Crowley’s tone, the way he damn near sounded fond that snaps Dean back to the present, breathless and angry. That wasn’t him, none of that was him. His _Thing_ with Crowley was all demon blood wracking his brain, fucking with his system. None of what happened, at least between them, was really him.

It doesn’t matter that he came so hard he blacked out, it doesn’t matter that afterwards Crowley finger-snapped him clean and smiled at him like he was the sun. It doesn’t matter that he is sporting a half chub remembering, it _does not matter._ Everything that happened between them is a moot point now; he’s over it and not interested in going back.

Crowley doesn’t fucking count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean is a hopped up on demon blood, Crowley comes onto him by making a comment that Dean doesn't really know how to have a good time, specifically in regards to sex. 
> 
> Dean challenges that to see what happens, Crowley magic's him unconscious and Dean comes to tied up on a saw horse. Dean says to let him go, Crowley gives him the out of begging. When Dean doesn't, Crowley tortures him, though Dean finds that as a demon he finds the feelings interesting and arousing. 
> 
> When Crowley notices, he proceeds with giving Dean some sort of magical lubricant, telling him again to say please and he'll make it stop. Dean doesn't so Crowley fucks him. Dean isn't clear on whether or not he actually says please, but eventually Crowley frees him from the bondage and lets him come. 
> 
> Dean, in the present, is angry that he remembers enjoying it and remembers how fond Crowley had sounded after. Dean doesn't count Crowley.


	5. Heaven or Close Enough

But the thing about Crowley not counting is that Castiel doesn’t count either, but Dean still thinks of him immediately following. Castiel shouldn’t even be on this list, but Dean imagines him being on this list so much that he admits it bears thinking about.

See, the thing about it is, Castiel has always been something different to him, different than all his other friends (though that is an undeniably short list). Aside from Sam, Castiel is the only person alive he trusts his life with. For everything that they’ve been through, for every bump and fuck up, Castiel has always come back to him. Back to _them_ , he corrects, ashamed but not very. He knows that it runs deep in him, the fact that Castiel comes back time and time again. Dean hasn’t ever had that kind of dedication from anyone outside his family. Castiel _is_ family and Dean has learned to view him as a permanent fixture in his life, something he never lets himself do, so he _knows_ there’s something funny here.

Something about Castiel’s quirkiness and odd mannerisms; the way he doesn’t always get the joke but still finds a reason to smile. And something about his level of love and respect for all life that is normally only observed in children who have yet to be hurt. It’s about the immeasurable strength and patience and _kindness_ that makes up Castiel’s genuine personality. It’s about the adoration Dean sometimes catches in Cas’ gaze when he looks at him. It’s that, on top of it all, Castiel _always_ comes back for him. That is already more than Dean felt like he had the right to ask for.

But that being said, Castiel is light and warmth and Dean wants to find a way to _bask_ in him.

When he thinks this, it makes his chest tight like he might pass out if he follows that thought. There’s a reflex urge to put a stop to this, play some classic rock so loud it would drown out his own thoughts, but he’s agreed to chase this rabbit today. He moves so he’s lying on the bed, heart thudding as he stares up at the ceiling. He’s got something to figure out here, half hard and having a crisis. He’s got something to admit to himself, just out on the edge of his awareness, swept under a rug.

Some of the things he has thought about Castiel are explicitly vulgar in nature. He wonders whether Castiel ever watched porn again after that first time; he wonders if Cas jerks off and what it would sound like if he did. He wonders if he is a screamer, if he’s ever let anyone wreck him enough to find out. Then Dean things, abruptly and possessively, that he doesn’t want Cas to find out with anyone else, which… is not exactly a _normal_ thought, but still _just_ a thought.

But even the immodest shit Dean thinks about Castiel is tilted away from what he normally imagines when he is stripping it quick and dirty in the shower. There is no bar, there is no dingy hotel. They are never in a dim locker room, or Purgatory, or in a secret room in Hell. When he thinks about Castiel, it’s almost always in light.

It comes to him easy as breathing, though he finds the latter oddly difficult as the bright room comes into his mind’s eye.

Castiel’s stubble would tickle his lips if they kissed and maybe they’d laugh. He imagines them laughing, hands all over tugging off clothes. He imagines – _sappy_ – kissing the wrinkles about Castiel’s eyes and pressing their cheeks together. He imagines Castiel holding him close and just breathing. He imagines the hands he’s felt on him a hundred different times, in a place they’ve never gone before, sliding slick and uncertain. They know how they want to feel but this is weird and new and Castiel’s hand shudders up the length of Dean’s cock, “ _Dean…_ ”

Dean’s breath catches a little and he puts his a hand down his pants, covering his face with the other. He’s been nursing this for too long and Castiel has always, _always_ been his undoing.

He imagines putting his mouth on Castiel; biting at his neck, scraping his beard down Castiel’s chest, kissing his way to his dick. There’s a hole in the fantasy, he doesn’t know what to do or what it would feel like, but knows it would make Castiel feel _good._ He imagines Castiel pulling his hair, breathless and raspy when he moans out, “ _Dean!_ ”

When Dean comes, it’s not as surprising as he feels it should be. He’s prided himself on lasting longer, a lot longer, but he can’t be bothered to think about that right then. He’s still dreaming. He’s still imagining, which confuses him because there’s no point now. There’s no reason to think about Castiel draping over him, twining their legs together after he’s come. There isn’t a good excuse for how Dean imagines Castiel smiling, saying his name like a prayer of thankfulness as they stay wrapped in each other’s warmth. There isn’t a good reason why he imagines kissing Castiel until he falls asleep because he can’t imagine himself leaving that bed for anything short of another apocalypse.

Dean imagines this and it makes his chest ache with how happy it would make him. He’s still holding himself, hand covered in come and breath coming in pants when the slow creeping dread hits him, the steep drop after the peak. He realizes the difference between Castiel and all the others.

He’s in love with Cas.

The hand that had been covering his eyes in shame slid down to cover his mouth in shock as the thought settles to place in his mind. He’s in love. Dean Winchester who spends all his life suppressing his desires for the good of everyone else, _wants_ something so badly it steals his breath. He wants Castiel. He wants all the pieces of himself that Castiel would share if anyone ever asked but nobody ever does. He wants this fantasy to come true, he wants to love Castiel in the light and hold him until the sky falls down. Dean _wants_ and wanting _hurts_ more than anything else; he can’t do this _._ He doesn’t have sex with people he cares about, not any more. He’s tried that before and look where it got them. He can’t do that to anyone, especially not Castiel. He can’t ask for that.

Castiel is just a dream, he has to be. But that dream hurts Dean enough that he can’t pretend it’s not important, not when he’s got that ache starting behind his eyes that makes him sit up and clear his throat. He tries not to look at himself as he wipes off in the bathroom, feeling even more off balance than he had when he started this little thought experiment. He wants liquor. Thinks better of it and decides to settle for a beer and thinking about literally anything else.

But first, he thinks as he washes his hands, he has to alter his original count a bit. The brief fling he had with Crowley and the dreams of what he wants but can never have with Cas have to come to some sort of agreement. One was real and the other broke his heart; so sure, they both meant something. For the sake of fairness, he considers them both to be worth about half a point a piece. One for reality, however far removed, and one for a dream that hit him directly in the chest.

All in all, that leaves him with three guys in his record book.

Three, he thinks with a sigh that’s not as relieved as he thought it would be.

It was just three.


	6. Home

Dean can’t deny that he still a little irritated when Sam walks into the kitchen, tossing his keys on the table and making a beeline for the fridge.

“Hey, man,” he says, like he hadn’t sent Dean into a crisis a few hours ago.

Dean lifts his beer at him. “What are you eating for?” he says when Sam starts pulling out leftovers. “Date didn’t go so well?”

Sam laughs, but Dean cocks an eyebrow when he goes slightly pink. “Screw you,” he shot back instantly, pulling out the rest of the beers, too. “I didn’t go on a date with him. Like I said,” he gives Dean a pitying look, “more your type.” He tosses some pizza into the microwave.

“I don’t have a type!”

“Alright, alright!” Sam raises his hands. “Whatever you say, man. You’re ‘straight and narrow’,” he says and Dean can hear the air quotes around the phrase. “I get it. Relax.”

Dean grouses, turning back to his beer when Sam brings his food over to the table. Dean steals a piece when Sam turns his back to open his beer.

“And for the record, there’s only been three,” Dean announces. He is going for casual instead of triumphant (Sam would figure out it meant something to him if he didn’t), though he does smirk as he takes a bite.

Sam’s eyebrow quirks in confusion, half ignoring him as he leans to grab the top from where it’d skittered across the floor. “Three what?”

“Only three guys I’ve ‘ _gone gay_ ’ for,” Dean says in a mocking tone, “not five. Close, but no cigar.” He sits back with his arms crossed, smiling smugly, “I’m not bi.” He is expecting follow up questions; Sam demanding to know who and when and where and so on. He was all geared up to feel the satisfaction of never telling and having that information over Sam.

However, the way Sam’s eyes nearly jump out of his face confuses him.

“Oh my…” Sam covers his face and sets his beer on the counter like he might drop it otherwise.

“ _What_?”

“Dean, I said— _Jesus,_ ” Sam’s eyes close like he’s fighting off a bad migraine. “I said five guys you _would_ go gay for, not _did_ go—wait,” his shocked laugh was uncomfortable at best, “You mean to tell me you’ve had sex with _three guys?_ And you _still_ say you’re straight??”

Dean feels the blood drain out of his face, his smile immediately dropping. “I… I mean, _no_ ,” he stumbles blindly to cover his own ass. “It-it actually was just twice?” then when Sam just stares at him in obvious incredulity, “Or just once, really, I—”

“Dean, _stop_ , for the love of—” Sam holds his hands up, “just _stop_.”

Dean immediately gets defensive, yet again feeling caught out and sick. “ _What?_ I’m just—”

“Why is this such a crisis for you?” Sam says and he sounds so annoyed it throws Dean for a loop.

“I’m not having a _crisis_ ,” he insists. “Just because we had some, you know,” he motions vaguely, anxiously, “ _moments_ with guys, doesn’t mean—” he stops when Sam waves his hands in his face again.

“Uh-uh,” Sam says, coming to sit down across from Dean. “Don’t include me in this. I’m not closeted.”

Dean just blinks at him for a moment, the words not having any meaning to him at first. “What?” he says, then again, leaning with narrowed eyes. “ _What?_ ”

Sam sizes him up with an eyebrow arched. “What?”

“So _you’re_ bi now?” Dean jumps to his feet when Sam just shrugs with an unapologetic half smile.

“Since when!?”

Sam snorts. “Since Tony DiNozzo gave me head in the back of his Camaro in senior high.”

Dean’s stunned to find he knows exactly what Sam is talking about, remembers the night Sam came running in late. He’d thought Sam had been breathless and wide-eyed because they’d only avoided getting into trouble because he had tumbled in the window a solid ten seconds before John had opened the motel door. He bristles at the memory, at the beating they almost got. “You said you got caught up _studying!!_ ”

“Well, I _definitely_ learned a thing or two.” Sam’s smirk is filthy and Dean has to turn away.

“That’s _so_ …”

Sam gets up and moves so he’s back in his line of sight. “Dean, why is it such a big deal?”

“You like _chicks_ ,” Dean says, feeling betrayed though he can’t exactly put his finger on why. “We _both_ like chicks!” his voice is getting oddly shrill and panicky. Judging by the look on Sam’s face, he can tell and doesn’t know what to do with that fear any more than Dean does.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sam says lightly, like Dean is especially slow. “So what? You don’t have to suddenly stop liking girls to be with…” his voice trails off and his face goes blank, an expression Dean can’t read but doesn’t like one bit. “A guy…” He’s just staring now, calculating. “A guy.” He blinks and Dean sees the shift in Sam’s face when something clicks, his eyes widening slightly. “Oh!”

“What?” Dean says too quickly to be innocent. Sam thinks there’s a guy he’s interested in, Sam _has figured out_ —no, no, stop it. There’s no way he’s been made so easily, right? But the grin stretching over Sam’s face is a pretty good indication, he _has_.

“Oh, dude, you’re so…” Sam laughs, but it’s good natured this time. He pushes Dean down by the shoulder until they’re sitting face to face. “Dean, listen to me. Do you remember giving me the talk?”

Dean jerks back to his feet. “Yeah, and I’m not doing it again!”

“Sit down!” Sam says and puts on his full strength bitch face. They hold like that for a moment until Sam raises his eyebrows, making it clear they’re not getting anywhere until Dean gives in. When he does, the annoyed huff and folded arms aside, Sam continues. “Did you ever once think to tell me that it might be _guys_ I might wake up wet over?”

“Of course not!”

“Why?”

“Because—”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me because I have?”

Dean looks away from him, making a disgusted face without really meaning to. “Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake, Sam!”

“ _Is there something wrong with me?_ ” Sam insists and something in his voice makes Dean look at him properly. Sam isn’t quite on the floor, but he’s leaned over in the chair in front of Dean enough that it reminds him of – all that time ago – when Sam was little enough to be looking _up_ at him. When Dean was telling him how the parts worked and how girls worked and Sam trusted him without (much) thought. Abruptly it occurs to him that Sam _means_ this question, honestly wants to know Dean’s answer. He’s hurt by the idea that at some point, Sam woke up – confused and ashamed – and didn’t feel like he could talk to Dean about it. This is a question Sam has been holding for years and is just now asking.

“No,” Dean grabs Sam by the shoulder, shaking him gently. His face is pinched, but he means it. Dean would never look Sam or any other guy in the face and tell them it was wrong to be attracted to other men; in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. He hates that Sam even had to raise that question. “It’s fine, Sammy, of course it is.” The dull ache in his chest subsides when Sam’s shoulder relaxes under his hand.

“Ok,” Sam says, but now his face is concerned. “Then why is it something wrong for you?”

Dean forces himself to hold Sam’s gaze, only because he knows looking away would be even more telling. Everything Sam would be able to see in his face right now, he already knows. Dean is uncomfortable, Dean is freaking out, and Dean _cannot_ answer that question.

There’s nothing wrong with being gay or bi or anything else, he never even really thought so, but he just—he _isn’t_ , can’t be. That’s not something he can think about, because thinking about it lead him to wanting things, wanting Benny who he lost, Crowley who he hated, and _Cas_ who he _can’t_ even fathom _._ Castiel has to stay safe and unattainable, _undesirable_ on all romantic fronts, or Dean won’t know what to do with himself.

He can’t answer that question and Sam sees it.

“Dean, we’ve been skimped on love our whole lives—”

“Woah now,” Dean says sitting back again. “We’re not talking about _love_ here.”

“Yes, we are,” Sam says softly, his smile somehow teasing and gentle at once. “This time we are and you know it.”

Dean feels his face go hot. Of course Sam knows who this is about; the list of guys Dean likes enough to be this screwed up over is not exactly a long one. “What’s your _point?_ ” he mumbles, crossing his arms defensively.

“The point is,” Sam says slowly, “haven’t we been denied enough stuff already?” He looks truly confused when he asks, “If we can find happiness, or even just something _good_ that doesn’t have to be named, why should we deny ourselves that when it’s _there_ for us to have?”

“It’s not there,” Dean says without missing a beat, sounding every bit as bitter as he feels.

Castiel, Warrior of God’s army, is different than any angel, or even person, Dean’s ever met. But he’s not… _this_. He’s not like Dean who dreams about the slide of skin and touch of lips, knowing what it feels like. Castiel cares for him, yes, could feasibly _love_ him, he realizes that, but there’s no way it’s the same thing. He’s their friend, maybe even in some ways views himself as a Winchester. He doesn’t _want_ like Dean does.

Sam doesn’t buy that for one shitting minute. “ _Dude_ …” is all he says, giving Dean a condescending look.

“It’s not!”

“Yeah, it is! You’re being so—”

They look up together when they hear the bunker door opening, Castiel’s voice coming muffled down the halls. “ _Guys? I’m back._ ”

Dean just has the time to think how fitting it would’ve been for Castiel to say “ _Honey, I’m home_ ” before he notices the shift in Sam’s body language. He turns to look at him and finds his face has gone from mocking to scheming – a little kid about to go tattle.

Sam is up and racing for the door before Dean can fully process the thought. Dean trips over the chair trying to stumble after him. “Sam, don’t!”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says, only mildly startled when Sam grabs him by the shoulders, grinning.

“Cas, Dean needs to talk to you!”

“No, I don’t!” Dean shouts as he comes around the corner. He goes red when Castiel’s eyes narrow at him, sizing him up as if for injury.

His gaze slides between them suspiciously. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” Dean says at the same time Sam says “Sort of.” Dean glares at him but Sam just looks at him tiredly, “Dean, come on.”

“What’s going on?” Castiel asks and the concern in his voice honestly makes Dean feel bad.

“Dean needs to talk to you,” Sam says, guiding him to stand directly in front of Dean, who’s feeling more and more like a wanted criminal. “And I need a nap.”

Dean turns as he heads down the hallway, annoyed and jittery. “Sam…”

“ _Talk_.” Sam says, pointing between them, before he disappears towards the bedrooms.

Though he can feel Castiel looking at him expectantly, he’s still not prepared for the sincerity in his face when he looks back to him. He rubs the bridge of his nose just to have an excuse to close his eyes. “Cas, it’s really not a big deal.”

“That doesn’t sound completely true,” Castiel says carefully. “Sam seems to think—”

“Sam is being a busybody,” Dean snaps, then winces at the rebuked look on Castiel’s face. “It’s nothing, man, just something we were talking about earlier…” he tries to sidestep the truth close enough that it’ll come out sounding honest, “It’s bugging me a little.”

“What were you talking about?” Castiel asks.

It’s the openness in his voice that makes Dean stumble over the story he was about to make up. Cas isn’t asking just to be polite. He’s asking because he honestly wants to know, wants to know if he can make it better. Castiel gives a shit and that breaks Dean a little, breaks him in the very place of his mind he’d been trying not to touch. His heart wants to leap out of his chest at this quiet assault on his solid ground. He wants Castiel to make this better, heaven help him, he does.

“It’s—uh,” Dean’s throat clicks when he swallows, a nervous laugh bubbling out of him. “ _Hypothetically_ , if someone were to, you know,” he shifts uncomfortably, “have _feelings_ for _guys_ similar to the ones they have for _chicks_ , how…” he crosses his arms, finally looking back to Castiel, “how-how would you feel about that?”

Castiel just blinks at him for a moment, his head tipped to one side, thoughtfully. “I would sympathize.”

It’s Dean’s turn to stare. “Excuse me?” He’s met with a small shrug.

“Humans’ genders do not actually change much about their sexual or romantic attractiveness,” Castiel admits, shameless and frank. “I don’t actually understand the need to differentiate in that respect.”

Dean shakes his head in disbelief, his heart jammed up in his throat. “Are you saying you’re-” he nearly chokes on the word “-bisexual?”

Castiel’s lips quirk slightly, but he nods. “I personally would use the term pansexual, but bisexual is an acceptable substitute as far as I’m concerned.”

Drawing in a breath, Dean takes a moment to process that, what it could mean. Hope is dangerous, it’s so dangerous and he’s aching with it. Because this is Castiel, without even knowing it, saying Dean might have a fighting chance with him.

And really, part of him that knows Castiel would take care of him, would love him only as much as he could handle. Because pain? Torture? Dean can take that. He’s an _expert_ at dusting himself off and getting back up. But if you love something that opens you up to a whole different world of hurt. However, Castiel has proven he will fight, _has_ fought heaven itself so he wouldn’t have to hurt Dean. He thinks, he could be vulnerable and Castiel would never let that be used against him. But the thing is, he _wants_ Castiel to want him, too, and that’s the scariest part. He’s wanted people – admittedly mostly women – but he’s never ached for them to love him back. They always both knew what they were in for, that Dean would be making tracks by the time they’d pulled their skirt back on, and the ones that didn’t quickly learned. But Dean doesn’t want that here. He doesn’t want Castiel to feel like Dean is afraid of his feelings, like he always has one foot out the door – he wants Castiel to love him That Way more than he’d like to admit.

“So,” Dean begins again, sounding annoyingly unsteady, “if there was _some guy_ that hypothetically had _feelings_ for you specifically, you—?”

“You mean like a profound bond?”

Dean freezes when Castiel looks at him comfortingly. His stomach swoops and he goes to move away, “Cas…”

“Dean,” Castiel says gently, catching Dean’s arm. He waits for Dean to look at him before he speaks. “I’d move the world for you, you have to know that, alright?” He takes Dean’s other arm before, hesitating only briefly, sliding down to take his hands. Dean is not thinking about anything but the feel of their palms pressed together and Castiel’s words washing over him. “It is, admittedly, not always easy being with you,” he squeezes Dean’s hands, “but I would never want to be anywhere else.”

Dean can’t find his voice for a moment. He looks down at their joined hands, “So you’re saying if _I_ had feelings for you, that would,” he licks his lips, feeling oddly small, “that would be alright with you?”

“I’m flattered by any of the ‘feelings’ you have for me, Dean,” Castiel says with a gentle laugh, stroking the backs of Dean’s hands with his thumbs and taking a step closer. “It’d be more than alright.”

The relief that hits Dean then is damn near a physical thing, his chest finally losing the tight feeling it’d had for hours now. He sags with it, even as he shakes his head. “I don’t know what it means,” he says, “to feel like this. Neither do you,” he adds suddenly. Because it’s love, he doesn’t have to dig deep down to know it is, but it’s not _just_ love. He frees one of his hands, hesitantly touching Castiel’s face, his voice low and intimate and half guilty. “You don’t know what I want to do to you, Cas.”

Castiel goes a little flush, but doesn’t so much as look away. His voice takes on the same low timbre Dean’s had. “You can do anything you want to me,” he promises, turning his cheek into Dean’s fingers. But a moment later pauses, a pinched look coming over his face. “Just… please.”

“Please what, Cas?” Dean asks and can’t think of a single thing he would say no to at this point. Especially when Castiel looks him dead in his eyes, serious and desperate, and says, “Kiss me first.”

Dean doesn’t obey him immediately, but takes a moment to force himself to relax. His heart is still thudding wildly in his chest, but he makes himself take in Castiel’s face, the _want_ – holy _shit_ , it’s _there_ – in his eyes and the waiting part of his lips. Castiel wants him and that is enough for now, that is enough for a lifetime.

Though be this far from his first kiss, he still feels the same dizziness come over him as he did the first time he kissed anyone. His hands are sweaty and holding Castiel’s a bit too tightly, but Castiel’s lips are a soft and warm against his. Even as Castiel’s stubble scrapes his cheek, he has to admit, it isn’t – physically – as different as he imagined it would be. And yet, here he is, knees weak and butterflies fluttering in his stomach like he was thirteen and sneaking kisses under the bleachers all over again.

When Castiel sighs against him, his free hand coming to rest warmly on Dean’s hip, it feels so natural to wrap his arms around him, to cling to him. It makes Castiel smile against his lips, stepping into his arms and opening up to the kiss. Their tongues touch and Dean feels himself growing warm, and more than just of body. He hasn’t had a kiss that’s made his heart pound, _overjoyed_ like this in years. And it’s Castiel, his brain gets caught up on, Castiel who misses the punchline and loves bees and always, always, always comes back. Castiel who Dean is hopelessly in love with.

His heart can’t take this kind of happiness. He feels like he might be dying and can imagine it’s only going to get worse – _better, infinitely, unfathomably better_ – from here on out.

“Come with me,” Castiel says before kissing him again, tugging him backwards down the hall, _towards his room_. “Just lay down with me,” he says when Dean tenses under his hands. “We don’t have to do anything but lay there, but _please…_ ”

“No,” Dean says softly, but doesn’t let him go, makes sure Castiel can see the pain on his face. “I mean, yeah, ok, I just…” he stops and Castiel watches him patiently, rubbing his hand soothingly up Dean’s side. He knows what he wants to say, or needs to say. It’s making him feel ill, the words at the tip of his tongue, so he blurts them out to be rid of them. “I’ve had sex with guys,” he says quickly and it’s not the relief he expects it to be. Even when Castiel’s face doesn’t change out of its kind interest, unbothered and nonjudgmental, he still feels like a fool. “But I’ve never… That’s not what this is, not with you, it can’t just be _sex,_ I, _shit_ —” he shuts his eyes, embarrassed and trying to prepare for laughter, even if it’s kindhearted. “I want to make _love_ ,” he confesses and his voice shimmers, “which is a fucking trashy, _stupid_ thing to even—”

“It’s not stupid,” Castiel cuts him off, hands on Dean’s cheeks. “It’s not stupid at all, Dean.” He kisses him lightly and it feels strangely platonic for this conversation. Dean wants about a million more when Castiel draws back again, looking him directly in his eyes. “There will be time for other things,” Castiel says, “and I want all of them, but right now, today,” he nuzzles into Dean’s jaw, “making love sounds beautiful.”

Dean lets out a breath, his hands suddenly restless on Castiel’s body. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Dean.”

This time when Castiel draws him forward, Dean goes instantly. He’s kissing Castiel breathless and stumbling down the hall like a drunk, but he’s too wrapped up in the feel of Castiel’s lips to worry about what his legs are doing. Castiel chuckles low in his throat, but does nothing to stop their jerky venture towards his bedroom, their legs bumping together as if he can’t bare for a moment to disentangle himself and walk properly.

Eventually, Castiel’s back bumps against his door and Dean presses him there. The muscular press of Castiel’s body is different than he’s used to, but it’s drawing him in all the same. He wants to get used to this, thinks in some ways that he never will. “Castiel…” he breathes his full name against his lips, before biting down his jaw. The hardly restrained sound that escapes Castiel when Dean mouths at his throat sends shivers down Dean’s spine.

Part of him knows this is juvenile, this frantic making out against the door as if they know inside something is going to break them apart. But he has to admit to himself, that’s partly what keeps him here, kissing Castiel’s neck purple. He won’t know what to do, once he pulls away and has to look in Castiel’s eyes. He wants to make love, but he’s not even sure he knows what that means anymore, let alone how to do it. His whole body is aching, but being afraid is not a good way to keep it up and he is _afraid._

Castiel must feel it on him, because he threads his hands into Dean’s hair. “Whatever you need, Dean,” he says kindly, turning his head to kiss Dean’s ear, “if this is too much, this is enough.”

“…It’s not,” Dean says and reaches past Castiel’s hip to twist the knob. He holds fast to Castiel as they go tumbling through the doorway, keeping him from losing his footing. He can feel the dark look in his eyes, the flush on his cheeks even before he looks up to see it mirrored in Castiel’s. He pushes the door shut behind him. “Nothing about you is ever enough,” he whispers, which sounds like _such_ a line, but is so true it twists him inside. “I want all of this, Cas, all of _you,_ I just…”

The confused quirk of Castiel’s brows is endearing but it makes Dean look away. He can’t explain himself, how he’s held down his desires for so long he doesn’t know how to do anything but choke them. He doesn’t know how to love another man’s body, but he doesn’t want Castiel to ever feel anything but love – he deserves at least that much.

Castiel just watches him for a moment, but then takes a step backwards, head dropped sheepishly. There’s a moment when Dean thinks he’s irreparably fucked this up, that Castiel is hurt and drawing away from him, but then his thoughts scramble when Castiel strips his jacket off, tossing it over the back of the chair.

“Cas…” he says, mouth gone dry.

All he gets in response is an acknowledging hum. Castiel doesn’t look up from where he’s unbuttoning his shirt, eventually pushing it off his shoulders. Dean’s stomach flips when Castiel unlatches his belt.

“Cas!” he says a little more sharply, startled at his own tone. He doesn’t know what it means, but he doesn’t want for a split second for Castiel to think he’s put off.

Castiel stops, chest bare and flushed, palms falling open at his sides even as his pants have started to sag. “This is me, Dean. All of _this_ ,” he motions at his body, the lack of breasts and the half chub between his thighs, “is me.” He swallows, looking Dean directly in his eyes. “Are you okay with that?”

“Yes,” Dean says without thinking, the desperation in his voice making him hot. “You don’t know how bad I want this, Cas,” he shakes his head, face pinched, “I just don’t know what I’m doing here.” He knows what he wants, knows what his body is _aching_ for, he just doesn’t know if his hands will stop shaking long enough that he won’t botch the whole thing. He wants with all his heart to make Castiel feel good, he just isn’t sure he can do that. But regardless, he opens his arms sighing, comforted, when Castiel steps up, circling his arms around his waist.

“You’ll tell me if you don’t like something?” he asks – _pleads_ – into Castiel’s hair, holding him close but not tightly, not yet.

Castiel touches the nape of his neck. “Of course, Dean,” he says against Dean’s shoulder.

“ _Promise_ me,” he says and tenses when Castiel pulls back to look him in the face.

“Only if you promise me,” Castiel requests. He rewards Dean’s nod with a kiss. “Then I promise,” he says softly in the scant space between their mouths. His hands land on Dean’s cheeks, eyes so happy and loving and _pupils blown with desire_ that Dean loses his breath for a second. “Just _touch_ me, Dean.”

“Just feel it out, huh?” he says relaxing marginally when Castiel laughs, eyes bright.

“That’s one way to put it,” Castiel agrees, watching, waiting for Dean to make his move.

Dean’s move, as it turns out, is to get handsy like he’s never felt skin before. He runs his hands over Castiel’s chest, heat stirring in his stomach when Castiel sighs, eyes sliding shut. His muscles aren’t as defined as Dean’s, but the idea that this body is holding back more power than most people can even fathom shakes him. His hands slide up to Castiel’s shoulders, pushing his shirt off completely before holding him by the sides of his neck to seal their lips together. He grunts appreciatively when Castiel’s hands fist in the sides of his shirt, bringing their bodies together.

“ _Fuck_ , you’re hard,” he gasps out.

The feel of another erect cock against his is still foreign, _jarring_ even, but this time he doesn’t feel the simmering of future-and-yet-present regret he had before. He shivers, shifting forward into the contact, blinking his eyes open when Castiel groans softly. He allows himself a possessive stroke of Castiel’s throat before running his hands down his back. He hesitates – can he grab Cas’ ass? Is that just a chick thing or—

Castiel cuts into his thoughts by freeing one of his hands and pressing down on Dean’s wrist. The look Castiel gives him when Dean’s hand finally reaches his ass could melt steel, “ _Touch me_.”

Breathing a little shallow, Dean obeys. He fits Castiel’s ass into his hands, squeezing, pressing until Castiel hums and grinds their hips together. Arousal tingles, warm and bright, up Dean’s spine and he tips his head back, basking for a long while. Castiel is moving like he wants it, like he’s been waiting for _so long_ to get to touch Dean this way. It nearly physically pains Dean to separate himself from that friction, the warm roll of Castiel’s hips, but he slides his hands around – touching the whole way – to the button of Castiel’s jeans. He gets it undone, his hands sliding down to Castiel’s hips, now only touching through his boxers. A small rush of boldness catches hold of him in the next moment and he lets his thumbs accidentally-on-purpose brush Castiel’s length. When Castiel groans, moving into the contact, Dean rides on that momentary boldness before he can think better of it. He slides his hand down to cup Castiel’s length.

Castiel rewards him with a full-body shudder, raising up into the contact. “Dean…”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Dean says, hoarse. He uses his free hand to force Castiel’s pants down, getting them trapped around his shoes. Castiel fumbles, trying to nudge one off with his other foot, but eventually Dean pushes him back until he’s sitting on the bed. He goes to his knees before him, reaching down to yank off his shoes.

The connotation of that position hits him in the middle of tossing the second shoe across the room. Until now, he’d had his face pressed against Castiel’s stomach, alternating between kissing and biting. Now, with one hand fisted in Castiel’s discarded pants, he looks up at Castiel, flushed.

Something in him relaxes when he sees that Castiel doesn’t look expectant – he looks slightly blown away already, _reverent_ , to be honest. He doesn’t say a word when Dean skips over the tent in his boxers, kissing down his thigh to the inside of his knee. He wants Castiel to feel loved, every single inch of him. _He just doesn’t think he can handle a dick in his mouth right now._ So instead, he bites gently at his ankle, making Castiel laugh and reach down for him.

Castiel flips Dean’s shirt over his head, tossing it aside and staring down at him. “You are…” he says after just long enough that Dean had started to get self-conscious, “impressive.”

Dean bites his lips to hide his smile, because that’s the kind of thing he should _smirk_ at, not beam like it touched him. He follows when Castiel pulls him up to kiss his smile, laying back on the bed. Dean – a professional, thank you very much – kicks off his shoes and climbs up over him. He hums when Castiel’s hands trail down his chest, pausing to roll his nipples on the way.

“Do you want to stay like this?” Castiel asks as his fingers trail down across Dean’s abs to the waist of his pants. “Do you want to take me?”

“I— _shit,_ ” Dean starts to respond that that’s 10/10 something he would like to do, but loses his train of thought. Instead of pushing Dean’s pants off his waist, Castiel slides his hands in, down the _inside_ of his boxers. Dean bows into the touch when Castiel’s bare hands grip Dean’s bare ass, fingers trailing teasingly along his crack.

“Do you want me to take you?”

“ _Please_ ,” Dean whispers, slightly embarrassed at how easily, earnestly it comes out. There’s an ache inside him, almost like that time so long ago, but this time it’s all Dean, it’s all Dean and _Cas_. He wants to let Castiel take him away, because he knows Castiel will take care of him, too. He shakes slightly, “Please…”

Castiel nods, kissing him. “Can I get on top of you?”

“Yeah _,_ ” Dean breathes, oddly relieved.

They shift together, Dean rolling onto his back as Castiel leans over to reach into the bedside dresser. Dean doesn’t let himself get surprised at the half bottle of lube Castiel pulls out – or rather, he can’t, because he’s laying on his back with a near naked Castiel kneeling over him. Castiel catches his eyes and whatever he sees makes his gaze turn soft. He leans down slowly, kissing Dean’s cheek, “I’ll be gentle.”

Dean huffs a laugh even as his heart thuds in his chest. “Not made of glass, Cas,” he says and is unprepared for the smirk that gets him. He startles when Castiel tugs at his pants and boxers. He struggles to help kick them off and not just lay there in shock, suddenly naked and hard as diamonds.

“We can figure that out some other time,” Castiel says, making Dean shut his eyes as he presses his legs open and settles between them. “I wanna do you softly, ok?” he says over the click of the opening lube bottle.

“Ok,” Dean agrees but then the unfamiliar, so long awaited, feeling of something pressing up inside him has him tensing again. Last time someone reached inside him like they cared if he liked it had ended embarrassingly quickly, he doesn’t want that today.

“Dean, you have to relax…”

“Yeah, no, ok, just…” he clears his throat, running a hand through his hair as he forces himself to loosen up. “Be careful?”

“Of course, Dean, I—”

“No, I mean…” he goes scarlet and covers his face, speaking through his hands, “I can come like this, so,” he gets rushed and flustered, “so don’t go poking around there more than— _oh, fuck, Cas._ ” He grits his teeth when Castiel does just that, curling his finger up, just missing the spot that would make Dean want to end it all.

Castiel laughs when Dean glares down at him halfheartedly, “I’ll stop if you get close, ok?” He bites Dean’s thigh making him groan, “I want to learn to recognize what that looks like.”

Dean’s head tips back, dick giving a throb at the very idea, his arms thrown over his face. “You asshole,” he mutters, shifting when another finger slides in beside the first.

“You flatter me,” Castiel smiles, scissoring his finger and kissing the bite mark on Dean’s skin. “You know, I’ve wanted to know for a long time now,” he comments almost offhandedly, “what you look like when you orgasm.”

“Cas…”

“I would think to myself, Dean can already smile like sex,” Castiel is saying, partly to distract Dean from the burn as he presses in another finger. “I wonder what he looks like at the height of pleasure.”

“You didn’t…” Dean starts to say, realizing distantly he’s rocking down on Castiel’s fingers as he drips on his own stomach. Dean’s eyes go wide when Castiel starts to work his pinky into the mix, “ _fuck…_ ”

“I did,” Castiel assures him, his eyes hooded when he looks up. “Do you even know what you do to me?” he asks, kissing Dean’s hip dangerously close to his straining erection. “How tempting it was to just pin you down and make you feel as good as you should have all along?”

Dean can hardly breathe. “Castiel…”

“Most beautiful man ever created,” Castiel continues, slowly fucking his fingers in and out of Dean. “I wanted to know what you look like when you can’t help how good you feel.” Castiel then _actually kisses_ his dick and it takes all Dean’s restraint to not blow right then. “I wanted to know how you would look if _I_ were the one to do that for you, Dean.”

“Fuck, _Cas_ ,” Dean gasps, reaching down and pulling Castiel’s hair. The fact that that only makes the angel groan doesn’t help his cause. “ _Fuck,_ _stop,_ I’m gonna _—_ ” he sighs, his control slightly easier to hold onto now that Castiel is slowly drawing his fingers out. He gathers himself for a moment before he manages to blink down at Castiel, breathing hard.

Castiel, who has yet to take off his underwear in spite of the noticeable wet spot on the crotch, is staring back at him with an unfamiliar light in his eyes. It makes Dean feel pinned in all the right ways, especially when Castiel slowly pushes his boxers down his hips, letting his erection spring free.

“Can I…?” Dean is pawing blindly for the lube, unable to decide if he wants to look at Castiel’s dick or his face more. He decides on his face when Castiel’s lips part slightly at the suggestion.

“Yes, Dean,” he breathes, passing the bottle to Dean.

Dean’s heart is hammering in anticipation when he sits up slightly, giving himself a handful of lube to work with.

The intimacy he gets from sliding Castiel’s dick into his hand – making Castiel moan and shift into the touch – still confounds him. Because, yeah, chicks risk a lot when they let men touch them. Dean never takes for granted what he’s been allowed to witness, what he’s been allowed to _do_ in bed in the past, but this still feels like something different. He feels powerful like this, strong without the masculine posturing; it’s not a macho thing. It’s more like Castiel, who saw the creation of the universe and has fought in heaven’s army, has decided Dean – even knowing all he’s done, _literally_ – still doesn’t think this will hurt him. It makes Dean feel _trusted—_ no, that’s close, but not quite it.

It hits him that when he’s like this he feels _trustworthy._ Like Castiel trusts him to do this and Dean will, without hesitation, come through for him. It’s the closest Dean has come to feeling like he deserves something good in a long time. He lets the warmth he feels at that wash over him without fighting it even if it makes his throat a little tight. He circles his thumb around Castiel’s slit making him jerk and hiss; he wishes he was close enough to bury his face back in Castiel’s stomach, hide there. He settles for letting Castiel push him back down, moving Dean’s thighs to rest comfortably over his. “Please,” he whispers.

“Yeah, Cas, _yes,_ ” Dean replies. He feels a bubbling nervousness building when Castiel’s hand joins his around Castiel’s erection. When Castiel moves Dean’s hand away, pressing it – stickiness and all – against his hip, he tries to relax. “Ok…”

Castiel kisses him. “I’ll go slow,” he promises and then does, pushing in unhurriedly and watching Dean’s face the whole time. “You’re ok, you’re doing great…” He doesn’t so much as glance away from Dean’s slowly widening eyes and the way his mouth drops open at the pressure building inside him.

When their hips are finally pressed flush together, Castiel finally lets his eyes shut for a moment and Dean bites his lip to keep from whimpering. He’s not worried, not really; he knows Castiel is going to do everything in his power to make this good for him. It’s the reality of that, he feels, that has started to make him… _emotional_. He covers his mouth with his hand, giving a small hiccupping breath that definitely doesn’t precede tears. He clenches his eyes shut when Castiel jerks to look at him.

“Does it hurt?” he asks like he knows it doesn’t, kissing Dean’s knuckles gently.

“No,” Dean says and makes himself look at Castiel. Though his vision is slightly misty, his heart nearly stops at the look on Castiel’s face.

He’s been with a lot of people. Some of them he would even believe if they were to say they’d loved him, but even so nobody has ever quite given him the face Castiel is giving him right now. The happiness that’s coloring his cheeks, the affection in the soft smile would have been enough to make Dean’s world tilt. But it’s something about the look in his eyes, the way he looked at Dean like he was something stunning and important and like Castiel feels _so very lucky_ to be with Dean like this.

Blessed, Dean thinks. Castiel looks like he feels _blessed_. The tears are rolling and the only thing that keeps Dean from wiping them is that he knows if he moves his hand, his quivering lip will be visible.

“Cas,” he says, and his voice sounds high and frightened, but he’s not afraid anymore. He’s _astounded_. He’s astounded because he is so loved, he _feels_ so loved right now that it’s threatening to break open his chest. It feels like he’s got daylight inside him and Castiel put it there. “ _Cas_ …”

Castiel pulls his hand away from his mouth and kisses him. “Dean,” he says, voice rasping but steady. “Dean, I love you,” he says and Dean cries in earnest this time.

“I know,” Dean whimpers, wrapping his arms around Castiel and kissing him repeatedly so his lips will do something besides tremble. He believes him, he believes that he would never lie about this, not even to spare Dean. Castiel’s love for him is just as true as the sun in the sky. “I know, Cas, _I know._ ” The smile he gets in response is blinding.

“Good,” Castiel says. He starts to move his hips almost absently, too busy alternating between kissing and grinning at Dean.

Dean starts to move with him without prompting, pleasure rushing through him at the sensation; raw, with no fear or shame. When Castiel releases his lips finally, brow dipping in distracted arousal, Dean is almost prepared for the now rapid snap of Castiel’s hips, burying himself to the hilt each time. He instinctively wraps his legs around Castiel’s waist, digging his fingers into the flexing muscles on his back.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas,” he moans, letting his head fall back so Castiel can freely kiss at his throat. His fingers wind themselves into Castiel’s hair.

“You feel so good,” Castiel says raggedly. “Dean…”

He’s getting close, Dean realizes, and pulls at Castiel’s hair until they’re face to face. “I want to see,” he begs. “Let me watch you.”

Castiel looks stunned, like he hadn’t even imagined this was something Dean would want as well. There’s a break in his rhythm, pressing almost frantically into Dean with much less finesses.

Dean is lighting up beneath him, cock dribbling and a stiff breeze away from coming. Castiel’s gaze feels too intense on his, as the angel goes to one elbow, snaking his free hand between their bodies. He knows what’s coming and still groans out loud, fingers digging deep into Castiel’s skin when Castiel’s hand closes around his arousal. “Cas!”

“ _Yes_ ,” Castiel grunts, but then his mouth stretches too wide to do anything but moan. He can’t even keep his eyes open as he drops his forehead against Dean’s.

Dean’s breathing stops when Castiel’s face tenses and – _shit_ – and his dick twitches in Dean’s ass. He’s frozen there, pressed balls deep and hand stuttering around Dean’s arousal. In all honesty, the loose grip he has on Dean’s dick was an _accessory_ to the look on his face.

Dean thinks he might’ve been able to come just from that.

He means to keep his eyes open, but they slip closed, the image of Castiel’s face wracked with pleasure sealed behind his eyes. He isn’t even really aware of himself, of how loud he’s getting or how his fingers in Castiel’s back are going to leave bruises, lost instead in Castiel. Castiel who strokes him through and then still holds him softly, muttering Dean’s name over and over.

“Cas,” Dean whispers back finally, opening his eyes to stare half-lidded at Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel says before he kisses him, looking just as pleasure-dazed. “Hello, Dean.”

The familiarity of that phrase let’s Dean stay somewhere lower than he normally gets to after casual sex. He cups Castiel’s cheek, in a surprisingly touching move. “Don’t ever change,” he laughs, smiling and not bothering to hide the joy in his face before he kisses him – _gets_ to kiss him, he thinks giddily.

Dean is not familiar with how to do this, but he is acutely aware of the dismay he feels when Castiel starts to move away from him. He winces slightly when Castiel pulls out, his muscles giving an odd pulse around the emptiness. When Castiel reaches over him to grab some tissue off the nightstand, he doesn’t fight back the urge to kiss at his chest as it passes making Castiel laugh. All he wants right now is to be near Castiel, wants to hold him close. When Castiel finishes wiping his hand, gently cleaning Dean’s stomach, Dean is clinging to his arms before he can even properly get up.

“Wait…” Dean says, then goes a little pink when he realizes Castiel was probably just going to toss out the tissues. Even still, he can’t make himself let go. “Stay?” he says and sounds so needy it would shame him if he didn’t mean it with all his heart.

But again, Castiel doesn’t laugh at him, he doesn’t even actually smile. His shoulders just sag, with something akin to relief Dean sees. He drops the tissues somewhere neither of them care about at the moment as he lowers himself half on top of Dean, head tucked under his chin. “Thank you,” he says after a moment.

There’s something in Castiel’s tone that leaves Dean at a loss for words momentarily, so he answers with his body. With his arm wrapped around Castiel’s shoulders, he dips his cheek against Castiel’s hair and reaches down with his free arm to tug Castiel’s leg over his – _I’m here, you’re here, we’re both staying_. The meaning behind Castiel’s “thank you”, the way it had been sitting wrong on his heart, hits him a short time after and he sighs.

“This is usually the part where I run,” Dean says to the ceiling, without stopping his hand where it has been stroking the back of Castiel’s thigh.

“Yeah,” is all Castiel says, not moving to look at him. His voice is carefully neutral, but Dean thinks he can detect a bit of acceptance there. Something about it stings.

“You’d never forgive me, would you?” Dean mutters, almost as if to himself. He’s tempted to hang on when Castiel tries to sit up, but he swallows his fear and releases him.

Castiel doesn’t go far, pushing up onto one elbow to look down at Dean. “No, that’s the thing,” he says, then swallows shaking his head. “I absolutely would.” He sounds destroyed and Dean never wants to hear that voice again.

“I won’t ask you,” he promises, running his hand through Castiel’s hair. They aren’t just empty words this time, promising some girl a future they can never have. He means it. He can’t tell if Castiel’s smile means he believes him or not, though.

“Ok,” Castiel says, turning to kiss his wrist.

“No, I mean it, I won’t—” he swallows, “I won’t _make_ you.”

“ _Ok_ , Dean,” Castiel’s eyes are a little moist when he leans down to kiss him. “I believe you.”

“I love you,” Dean responds in the small space between them, heart in his throat as he does.

Castiel’s laugh is bright and happy. “I know,” he chuckles, shifting back down to fit against Dean’s side. “I believe that, too.”

A deep kind of peace settles over the room, Dean drawing absent patterns on Castiel’s shoulder as he dozes against him.

“So,” Dean starts, but Castiel hardly indicates he heard him, “I might be bisexual.”

Dean’s grin is unusually sunny when Castiel laughs himself awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote!! Another round of applause for bluefire986!
> 
> Comments of all kinds are always welcome! Hope you enjoyed!!


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